


A Donut Shop Called Half a Dozen

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Anal Sex, Bottom Jared, Domestic Bliss, Donuts, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, One Shot, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Schmoop, Self-Lubrication, Top Jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:43:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5037898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared works as an accountant and has a stable, steady life. He's got his routines down pat and a house to himself. Everything is just the way he likes it.</p>
<p>Of course, life has something else planned for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Donut Shop Called Half a Dozen

Have babies, they said.

They’re so much fun, they said.

Why Jared decided to listen he will never understand. Some of it had to do with one of the partners at the firm being poached by a rival, necessitating Jared to step in and take over a metric shit ton of clients until the higher-ups could find a replacement. Jared had gone into accounting because he was good at numbers and not so good with people. He was a natural at submitting reports, breezing through audits, and calculating formulas in his sleep.

Yet he wasn’t ambitious. He’d been at his current job for five years and accepted two minor promotions, but he didn’t want to climb the ladder like many of his counterparts. He especially didn’t want to do so by backstabbing, gossiping, or throwing anyone under a bus.

Since his parents had left him three bedroom house when they retired and scooted off to Europe one summer—subsequently turning into expats—he had no need for the lofty salary given to partners. Just because he lacked ambition didn’t mean he was stupid; he knew the salary of a partner and he knew the stress. No thanks.

Life was good.

He had things in order the way he liked it. Stable. Reliable. Fun when he wanted it and how he wanted it. Sure, he created itineraries timed in fifteen minute increments when he took vacations, but being single and carefree allowed for his somewhat intense planning. When business took a slight dip in June, Jared visited one of two places for a week—a remote cabin in Maine or a remote cottage in upstate New York.

Things were going well. His career paid well, his employer provided benefits, and little by little he had been making progress repairing the fence in his backyard to keep soccer balls and Frisbees away.

One night, _it_ happened.

Jared was in the second bedroom, which he had converted to a home office, and he was sprawled out on the floor. Surrounded by meticulously organized papers, he chewed on a pencil and felt he was closer and closer to figuring out a loophole. Was he excited? Yes. Was he well fed? Yes. Did he have clean clothes and gas in his car? Yes and yes. Did he generally like who he saw in the bathroom mirror every morning? Yes, actually, he did.

But.

It was just so…

Suddenly, this particular brand of silence followed him everywhere. It joined him for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and his midnight snack. It sat on his shoulder during meetings and phone calls and small talk with Roberta the sixth floor receptionist. It made itself comfortable in the passenger’s side seat of his four door sedan and kept him company as he folded his underwear and socks every Sunday evening after dinner. It even found him when he was trying his best to express to his neighbor why he didn’t appreciate kites and model helicopters getting stuck in his trees.

It was always around.

Even when his mother would call and tell him inane stories of his father pissing off the French and offending the British and making best of friends with the Spanish. Her voice was across an entire ocean and yet, Jared swore on several occasions, her voice was loud enough to cause his cell phone to shake.

And still, that same eerie, compounding silence lingered.

Curing it didn’t happen in the way Jared thought to go about it.

Initially, he supposed maybe he should get a dog. He had always enjoyed strolling through the dog park and making friends with the dogs—not the owners. Or maybe, to start, he should invest in a few houseplants before upgrading to something that depended on nutrition other than photosynthesis. It took him a few weeks to think these options through, and in the end, he decided to leave the radio on at home.

In a fortnight, Jared became an expert of the airwaves. He memorized a few programs he enjoyed, added his favorite stations to the presets on his radio, and developed a rotation so he never missed anything.

And still, that same eerie, compounding silence crawled its way out of the speakers and danced in front of him, obnoxious and rude.

Would he have to resort to begging someone from work to come over and transfer their small talk from the office to his personal space? Would he have to feed them or would offering to feed them be enough? What if he tried the houseplant option? What then?

Jared thinks back to this time of his life and can’t help but shake his head in response.

His family members urged him to settle down. Find someone. Have a kid. A baby would fill up the house. He could even train the baby to be an accountant like him, one uncle had said.

To his family’s dismay, Jared’s answer never changed. He was already settled down.

He just couldn’t figure out how to get rid of that pesky silence.

Sometimes it sat on his chest late at night and stared—sometimes at him, sometimes out the window, like it was looking up at stars.

The poached partner’s client load had been considerable. Jared was working fifty to sixty hours a week, once pushing seventy, and despite working consistently all summer, he was barely caught up by the fall. One of the interns offered their help, but Jared declined. He had no time to spare to train anyone or fix their mistakes, even if their intentions were good.

And then, it sort of happened.

Sort of.

A coworker passed out donuts one Friday, but instead of placing two cardboard boxes in the breakroom and leaving them to deplete on their own, they passed them out. One by one, everyone on the floor received an individually wrapped donut. Jared stared at his donut, which was encased in bright pink crinkly paper.

Despite the radical choice in color, the paper had only one word printed on it, in small, Times New Roman print: DONUTS.

Was that the name of the place? Was the creator of this donut simply reminding their customers what they were eating? But there was only one donut inside the pink paper sleeve, so shouldn’t it say: DONUT?

Jared left work.

Silence tracked him, but he already expected that.

He walked six blocks east and turned right, then walked some more, until his legs carried him to the destination. He’d left documents up on his computer. Someone may or may not have been on hold on his line. His desk chair was probably still warm. And yes, he had a car, but the instinct to walk outweighed the convenience of driving. Walk this way. Go there. It was the first time silence spoke to him.

So he listened.

The sign above the shop glowed in the same shade of pink as the paper sleeve.

And it read the same text: DONUTS.

Frustrated, Jared ducked inside. He hadn’t even tasted the donut at work, but he wanted an explanation. What was the point to wrapping up each donut and labeling it DONUTS? What was the point of having a shop and naming it something so… plain? Could this tiny shop even be considered a business?

A few regulars milled around, donuts and coffee in hand.

Two large glass counters displayed the product of the shop—frosting and filling glistening in an almost dizzying array of colors and flavors. Behind the counters were two columns of even more selection, all of them neatly labeled and arranged in an order that made sense. Jellies were with jellies and so on.

Determined to remain unimpressed, Jared pat the silver bell on the counter for service.

Receiving no response, he pat the bell again.

Did no one work here?

“Hold your horses, Mabel,” a voice rang out from the back. “I’m ass deep in a fresh batch, don’t worry.”

This voice had an owner, who appeared two seconds later, carrying a tray of apple cider donuts recently powdered and prime for purchasing.

“My name is not Mabel,” Jared informed the man.

“That’s too bad,” the man replied, flashing a grin as he wiped the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s a nice name. Though, just because you have a nice name doesn’t mean you’re a nice person. Take Lorraine over there.” He pointed to one of the regulars, a middle aged woman eating a donut and completing a crossword puzzle at the counter by the window. “Nice name, rolls off the tongue. But Lorraine? She’d probably kick a puppy if it meant knowing the answer to seven across.”

“Kick your balls, Jensen,” the woman named Lorraine snapped without looking up. “Make it worth it.”

“See,” the man named Jensen quipped to Jared. “Kicking my balls would be just as bad as kicking a puppy. And I already told you, Lorraine, it’s ‘immunity.’”

“The hell it is.”

“You think that just because I make legal addictive sweets all day I can’t finish a crossword puzzle.”

“No, I think that because your mouth runs faster than a hare.”

“Oh, an Aesop reference today,” Jensen chirped, lightly slapping his hand on the counter. He looked at Jared. “She’s trying to say that I can be a bit of a Chatty Cathy.”

This time, Lorraine looked up and over at Jensen. Her eyes briefly scanned over Jared, but they focused on Jensen. She sniffed, “You prove it on your own just fine. That poor man’s been standing there for a good fifteen minutes and you haven’t made a single sale.”

“That’s because we’re conversing like civilized folk.” Sighing, Jensen wiped his hands on the white apron he was wearing and held his arms out, attention tuned back to Jared. “What can I get you, not-Mabel? I got pretty much anything you could want out of a hunk of fried dough. And what’s some dough worth? Huh? Get it?” Jensen laughed at his own joke before it was even completed. “…two bucks! Ha!”

Jared blinked.

He wondered if maybe the man behind the counter had inhaled too much sugar.

“Oh, you’re getting that look,” Jensen said. “The ‘let me run away as fast as I can from you and this place’ look. Well, I insist that you have at least one donut on the house, so you can tell your friends and relatives that you’ve never had a more delicious donut than the one you got here from the guy who spooked you.” With a new piece of wax paper, Jensen grabbed an apple cider donut and dropped it into a pink paper sleeve. “Is apple cider okay?”

Jensen held out the donut, which looked almost identical to the one Jared had abandoned on his office desk not long before that.

And for whatever reason, Jared took it.

“Try it,” Jensen encouraged calmly. “You can be the first to tell me if that batch is any good.”

Silence was nowhere to be found. Even when Jensen wasn’t speaking it wasn’t lurking, chasing, watching, or hanging in the air. Jared would have questioned it more, but he was doing the unthinkable. His fingers were pressed over the sticky, warm surface of the offered donut, extracting it from its ridiculous pink paper sleeve.

He took his first bite.

Six weeks later, in almost the same exact scenario, Jensen offered Jared the first donut of a new batch.

Except he handed it over with very different words.

“Wanna have me for dinner? I mean… would you wanna… look, you don’t make this easy on me with those eyes and that smile and holy fuck, I’m give myself a nosebleed. Look. Do you. Do you wanna have dinner? Like, with me. I would be involved. Hopefully. We could sit at a table together, even.”

After his first bite of that donut, Jared replied.

“Yes.”

 

That was just about eighteen months and countless donuts ago.

“My mom wants to visit again, before we start setting up. You know she’s gonna fight you tooth and nail about the color of the room.”

Jensen sets down a pink paper bag onto the coffee table. From just the faintest scent of it, Jared detects blackberry jelly. He asked for something sweet and sticky earlier and those would fit the bill.

Leaning over the couch, Jensen pecks Jared on the cheek.

“You don’t mind her here, do you?” he asks, worry in his features, drowning out even the strong smell of sugar and batter perpetually stuck to his clothes. “You know I inherited her gift of gab and I don’t want you to think she’s always got to be here. We can be motor mouths. All you have to do is tell me, ‘Jensen, you and your mom can go suck an egg.’ And I’d do it, Jared, just for you. I would suck an egg.”

From his nest of blankets on the couch, Jared sighs. He can’t entirely help the ghost of a smile that occurs. It’s best not to encourage Jensen when he’s talking or been talking about the room.

“I like your mom,” Jared replies, curling up, shifting slightly. “She’s nice.”

“That’s one word for her.”

“You’ve said all the other words.”

“True, but I have to. It’s my duty as her son to praise her good looks and business acumen. I get those from her, after all.” Jensen gingerly sits down next to Jared. And though he tries to sit still, Jared can feel him thrumming with excitement. “So? You gonna cave to her and go with the yellow she picked out?”

Quietly, Jared submits his answer. “No. I like the green.”

Eagerly, Jensen submits another question. “You got any support for your case?”

Jared reaches for the bag on the coffee table, despite the obstacles in his way, one of which is Jensen, and the other being nine months’ worth of back pain, swollen ankles, congestion, peeing every ten minutes, and finding out that morning sickness is not exclusive to the morning.

Luckily, accounting can be done from home. Even luckier, accounting can be done from bed, since Jared has officially been on bedrest for two weeks and counting. Technically, today he is on couch rest. Jensen helped plop him onto the couch before he left for work and Jared hasn’t moved since. Even if he wanted to move, he couldn’t. Nine months hasn’t been the difficult factor in this pregnancy.

Carrying quadruplets has.

At the same time Jensen moves for the bag, one of the babies on the left decides to move around as well. Jared inhales sharply, and Jensen is all concern, apologizing in hushed murmurs for the noise.

His hand lands carefully over the swell of stomach partially hidden underneath Jared’s blanket. In the past month, the shape of the mound has changed considerably. As the babies descend lower, Jared’s belly has stretched down, resembling more of an oval instead of the balloon he started out with once he hit twenty weeks.

After every doctor’s appointment, Jensen tuned the radio to Jared’s favorite classical music station and measured Jared’s stomach by way other than cold measuring tape. From week eight on, Jared lay on the couch and Jensen measured using the only tool he could relate to—a donut.

Or, many donuts.

Last week, Jensen balanced eight donuts over Jared’s belly before Jared sneezed and knocked them all off. Jared can tell that this week, he’s closer to ten donuts. Maybe it’s the consistent access to donuts, or his lack of activity due to bedrest, but this week he feels heavy. His belly has become a constant weight, stretching out to touch his knees, round and massive.

Jensen’s hand on it feels good.

“Labor?” Jensen asks, anxiety and excitement in his tone.

Shaking his head, Jared breathes out. “No. Not yet.”

“Good.” Jensen laughs softly. “They’ve gotta hold their horses, Mabel.”

“No one… huff… is going to be… huff… named Mabel.”

“I can sell you the name, honey, just give it a chance.”

“No.”

“There’s four of ‘em. One’s got to look like a Mabel.”

Jared swallows his reply as two babies shift around in response to their sibling. Eyes squeezed shut, he concentrates on the immediate scents and sensations around him. Jensen’s hand feels soft. That means he’s been sneaking cocoa butter lotion meant for Jared’s stretch marks. The blanket smells like laundry detergent, cinnamon, and confectioner’s sugar.

“You want me to help you to bed?”

“Nuh uh.”

“Put your feet up, then?”

“Mm.”

Jensen’s lowered, soothing voice feels like numbers lining up and loopholes being discovered.

His next suggestion feels just as natural.

“Want me to blow you?”

Opening his eyes, Jared peers over at Jensen. On their first date, Jensen almost had to cancel. He got in a rush order of five hundred donuts due the next morning. He let Jared into the shop and locked up after him, then offered him two options—raincheck or pull up a stool to the counter. Jared decided that there were worse things than watching donuts being made. As Jensen worked through the evening, Jared hardly spoke more than three sentences.

It was perfect.

And Jensen made five hundred and two donuts. They ate the extra two on the front step of the shop at three in the morning, crumbs falling out of Jensen’s mouth as he told the story of how he came to the conclusion that no dessert could ever triumph over a donut.

Exactly three months later, Jensen moved in.

Jared offered the change. He figured it made sense. Financially, it would save them both. Emotionally, he admitted that mornings without seeing Jensen’s toothbrush by the sink were distinctly different than mornings when he did.

So Jensen hauled over his collection of dessert cookbooks and kitchenware.

That was pretty much it.

He had at least ten boxes of kitchen stuff and maybe three boxes of everything else.

A month after living together, Jensen absolved Jared of fixing the fence. All he had to do was offer their neighbor one box of free donuts every week if his kids quit throwing things over the fence. That and he may or may not have thrown a football into the neighbor’s yard when they were having a family reunion. Wearing nothing but a tiny, orange Speedo, Jensen climbed the fence and greeted all thirty family members in attendance. Walking over to the football, he suggested that the propane grill was set too high and that they were likely burning their steaks.

Since then, not one errant baseball, kite, or other object has offended their backyard.

And since Jared gave the news that he hadn’t caught a bad case of the stomach flu and instead seemed to have caught something more permanent, Jensen has picked up more catering jobs throughout town. He convinced two separate Sunday schools that they need donuts after class. Any kind of gathering of two or more people in town and Jensen has asked them, “You know what you could be holding right now? A donut.”

They’re in what Jensen calls the homestretch now.

Just one more week and they won’t have the time or mind to argue with anyone about the color of the nursery walls. Or offer oral sex as relief.

“C’mon,” Jensen mumbles, pressing a kiss to Jared’s cheek. “Spread ‘em.”

“You worked today.”

Shucking his apron, Jensen laughs. “Yeah, I worked a PTA meeting and ladies’ lunch.”

“So you’re tired.”

“Are you kidding? Who could be tired coming home to you? You think that just because I spend all day making the world’s best donuts that I’m too tired to treat the love of my life to the world’s best blow job?”

“…maybe,” Jared replies, trying to hide his smile behind the sleeve of his sweater.

Jensen slides off the couch and onto the living room floor. He leans on the couch cushion, looking up at Jared, eyes bright and mischievous. A similar look to that one occurs whenever he thinks up a new flavor of donut to try.

“I’m world’s best at two things, Jared—donuts and blow jobs. Don’t deny me of those.” Once more, Jensen’s hand slips over a portion of Jared’s belly. His fingers rub in a familiar pattern, tracing up the curve and reaching around, until Jared’s entire body aligns itself in that rhythm.

Inch by inch, Jensen eases the blanket off of Jared. He positions himself in the space between Jared’s legs, kneeling, his eyes radiant with sweetness and joy. Jared reaches out. Jensen joins their hands and together, against Jared’s bare skin, they continue the rhythm Jensen started. Wide, open circles expand over the widest, most sensitive parts of Jared’s belly. Their palms graze across stretchmarks, reaching out to rub against the tender, heaving underside.

The back of Jensen’s palm touches Jared’s cock. Jared moans and lifts his hips in response.

“Yes or no,” Jensen whispers. His voice has lowered, but become no less powerful or heady. “Yes and I keep going, no and I help you with work.” Jensen couldn’t run an audit if a million donuts were on the line.

But that’s okay.

“Yes.” Jared squeezes Jensen’s hands. “Yes you keep going.”

Jensen wastes no time. He frames their hands over the apex of Jared’s belly. A second later, he kisses that spot, causing Jared to shiver. Kiss after kiss, Jensen covers the large mound, his plush, soft lips setting the sensitive skin there on fire. Finished, he pauses to make eye contact with Jared.

In those few seconds, Jensen licks his lips and smiles.

It’s enough to wrench a loud, languid moan from Jared.

In no time at all, Jensen’s mouth is over Jared’s cock, sealed against the bloated, twitching head. His tongue flickers under the crown. It flirts with the leaking slit, dipping in and out and in and out until Jared’s legs buck. Jensen pops off, then cradles Jared’s belly in his hands before leaning down again.

He swallows Jared—hungry and desperate for it. Starved and aching, Jensen hollows his cheeks, applies pressure with his lips, and lets out one long, rumbling groan.

Jared clings to the couch, crying out.

Soon enough he retracts his noise, inhaling deep, gasping as his swollen cock taps the back of Jensen’s throat. The pressure is divine. The feeling is exquisite. Over and over again, the tip of him hits that velvet, scorching place. Jensen starts to rub circles over Jared’s belly and every sensation sky rockets. Jared loses himself in it all, head tossed back as Jensen’s head begins to bob. He can hear his cock steadily fucking Jensen’s wet, open mouth and throat. On every fifth or sixth thrust, Jensen sucks Jared down whole again and holds him as deep as he can, the muscles in his throat flexing until he chokes, deliberate and loud.

This could be the end.

Jared has come like this countless times before. He’s come deep in Jensen’s throat, tilting Jensen’s head back and pushing down until Jensen’s eyes watered. He’s come all over Jensen’s handsome face, spurting across the bridge of his nose, come dripping down to those plump, shapely lips.

“More,” Jared manages to pant, fingers digging into the couch.

Jensen pops off with a squelch, kneeling back so Jared can see him, wiping his bottom lip with his thumb.

“You’re sure?” The question pours out of that mouth like melted dark chocolate.

All Jared can do is nod in reply.

They’ve only had sex in the shop once. Jensen was working on another rush order. It was raining that night, and Jared fell asleep once. He woke up to find Jensen’s coat over his shoulders and a mug of hot coffee on the counter. An hour later, once the order was finished, Jensen fucked him on the floor behind the cash register.

It was the last cup of coffee Jared’s had in nine months.

And just like that night, Jensen turns Jared over. Unlike that night, he’s ten times more careful. They can’t be rough as they were then. Jared has to adjust to being on his knees, his belly hanging heavy and full underneath him, bumping against the couch and his thighs. He groans at the movement, panting from the shift in his weight.

Pillows are offered, but Jared declines with a shake of his head.

That’s too much sensation.

It’s enough to feel Jensen’s hands grope him from behind, fingers pressing at his entrance and slick dribbling out, coating his thighs in a matter of seconds. Jared has been like this since week fourteen—sensitive and wet at the suggestion of being this close.

He braces himself, holding onto the armrest. Possessive fingers sink into Jared’s hips, pulling him back so that Jensen can arch forward.

The first inch pushes in like torture.

Jared is dripping wet but tight around Jensen. They moan in unison, breaths hitching the second Jensen presses in a little deeper. Inch by inch, Jared is worked open, stretched out to take the thick, hard cock buried inside him to the hilt.

After one squeeze of Jared’s hips, releasing a gush of fresh slick, Jensen begins to move.

Neither fast nor slow, he picks the right rhythm once again. He drives into Jared with long, demanding strokes, pounding until his cock is soaked and his hands reach down. His thrusts never falter; desire fuels every wild movement. Jared’s ass bounces against his hips, and underneath, Jared’s belly swings, its weight immense and solid.

Muscular thighs accelerate the rhythm, working them into a feverish storm.

Over and over again, Jensen bears down on a bundle of nerves, Jared clenching and squirting slick over him. Close. So close. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough until Jared spreads his legs out an inch further, tilts his hips at a different angle, and matches each thrust forward with one of his own backwards. He fucks himself on Jensen’s cock, chasing the ravenous, tumultuous demand for more, more, more, more…

Jared comes, creaming over the hard cock pounding deep inside him, and releasing rope after rope of come over the underside of his belly.

Jensen reaches down. His fingers smear Jared’s come, spreading it to cover more skin. Adjusting them carefully, he holds Jared’s belly in his hands and mounts him from behind. His hands provide a protective barrier as he burrows inside Jared, deep as he can, and pounds into him.

Screaming, Jared tenses, pushing back, coming again and again, his belly heaving and muscles working to hold himself up. He comes all over Jensen’s hands on his belly, the first rope of it landing just as Jensen starts to come. He can feel every quake of Jensen’s orgasm, filling him up completely.

They slip and shake together.

They sweat and sigh together.

Wrung out, Jared still manages to wedge his hand underneath him, slipping it over Jensen’s.

They are a mess together. Absolutely imperfect—staying up until late listening to the radio and humming along to their favorite tunes. Writing grocery lists three times because Jensen always forgets something and lately, Jared’s cravings change on a dime. Playing poker and betting pairs of baby socks, already rewarding each other with future breaks from diaper duty. On the phone in the evening when the shop is closed and Jensen has stayed later because he didn’t want to kick out the Girl Scout troop he’s allowed to hold meetings in the shop. Planning out trips back to Maine and upstate New York without itineraries but with an exact count of mileage.

Imperfectly, they lay on the couch together in the most awkward position, covered in sweat and come.

No one says anything.

No one adds to noise of two hearts and two sets of lungs recovering from what started out as something simple and became much more.

Silence disappeared the second Jensen spoke to Jared. It has never returned, even in moments like this.

Jared closes his eyes and breathes in, lulled by the presence of Jensen’s nose against the nape of his neck. Jensen never needs an excuse to talk. He can and frequently does talk to himself. Whether he’s making breakfast in the morning or setting his alarm at night, he’s usually Chatty Cathy.

This time, however, Jared speaks first.

“Green,” Jared hums out. “Because it’ll match.”

In a display of talent, Jensen manages to grab the bag of donuts from the coffee table without moving them much. He takes out one blackberry jam donut. Holding it up in a bright pink paper sleeve, Jensen asks, “Match what?” He offers the first bite to Jared.

The print on the sleeve no longer says DONUTS—neither does the sign above the shop. Sight of the improvement always makes Jared smile, just like his reasoning for painting the nursery green.

“Their eyes.”

Jared takes the first bite of donut.

And he lets Jensen have the last.

 

**Author's Note:**

> flexing these porn and schmoop muscles! woo!
> 
> now i'm gonna crash because it's 5 am here... 
> 
> comments are love!


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